Phobophilia
by E. S. Young
Summary: Phobias.  Philias.  A series of one-shots centered on fear and desire. Sometimes, they can be the same thing, depending on who you are. Crane/Harley.
1. Clinophobia

**Clinophobia**

**Note****:** So, the next chapter of _In Vino Veritas _needs to be rewritten because I feel that it just falls flat, and, all last week, I had midterms that are extending into _this _week. There should really be a law against that, but as long as College gets my money, College doesn't care about anything else. XP Anyway, because of that, there will be a very slight delay that this little one-shot will hopefully make up for.

This, and the one-shots that follow, are set in the "_Fear and Malice_ with sex" universe, and I honestly think that that's what I'm gonna call it from now on. :-P

* * *

He could do this, he told himself as he strode through the halls of Arkham. After all, it was hardly unusual. Normal couples did it all the time.

_**As if you two are normal,**_ the Scarecrow jibed, amused. _**And since when did you become a 'couple?'**_

He took a left at the break room.

_Since I consulted Merriam-Webster and couldn't find anything else to define what that woman has done to me._

**I **_**could define what she's done to you. In your office, in a straightjacket, with leather restraints, on an examining table—**_

_At least she's never done it in a supply closet, _he thought curtly, heading down the hall toward the offices.

_**Yet.**_ Then the voice sighed. _**Jonathan, you have sex with the woman, and you've decided not to kill her. And sometimes she spends the night and makes you breakfast the next morning—that hardly makes you a 'couple.'**_

_Any two people who are sexually associated with one another can be defined as a couple. And it isn't just sex. The handholding's nice,_ he mused before he could stop himself and winced outwardly. Damnit. He was acting like some lovesick schoolboy and it was all because of that tiny blonde halfwit, who incidentally _wasn't _a halfwit but someone he could hold an actual conversation with, who also happened to be quite evil, which, unfortunately, only made her more appealing, yet at the same time, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was being absolutely sincere whenever she said that she never wanted to hurt him.

_Damnit!_

_**Dwell on this later,**_the Scarecrow lectured. _**You're going to give yourself a migraine.**_

_Fine_, he agreed. _But I'll have you know, you sound like her, saying that._

_**Don't go there, Jonathan. Do not.**_

With a satisfied smirk, he paused outside her office. The light was on, which meant that she was inside. But she always kept her door locked, and he knew by now that if he knocked and received no answer…

_That means she's in bed._ Despite himself, he felt the corners of his mouth pull upward. The first time he had entered her office, he had realized that Harleen's couch was a pullout, but at the time had been unable to think of why she would need such a thing. Now he knew.

Silently, he raised his hand.

_**And what if she **_**isn't **_**there?**_ the Scarecrow, manifestation of his darkest thoughts and doubts, could not help but inquire.

He hesitated.

_She will be. If she knows what's good for her._

After all, they only had about an hour to do this and he wasn't about to go looking for her.

He rapped his knuckles against the door.

No answer.

With an odd combination of both relief and anxiety, he pulled out his set of keys, swiftly unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

It was embarrassing how relieved he felt when he saw that she hadn't disappointed him. She was resting on the futon, facing the door, eyes closed but probably still awake, and down to her camisole and underwear. A look at her closet revealed her clothing hung up neatly beside a set of empty hangers. Meant for him, most likely. She knew how much he hated to get his clothes wrinkled.

He stole another glance at her unmoving form before quickly undressing himself, hanging his suit up next to hers. Now bare-footed, silently padding over to the bed, he climbed in on the other side, scowling slightly as the creaky mattress disrupted the quiet of the room. With a few muttered curses, he settled in behind her, tangling a leg with both of hers and slipping his arms around her waist. He sighed, and propped his chin on her shoulder.

This was not a normal part of his schedule. But when all week, he'd been working relentlessly on a particularly violent patient, a new toxin, and procuring funds for a new security system, he was worn out. Last night's bedtime escapades with the blonde tart hadn't helped, either. She hadn't even made him breakfast, although, to make up for it, she'd suggested that they sneak off to take a nap together during lunch. Since he knew that an unrested mind and body would not perform as well as they could (and that even _he_ had limits), he had told her that he would consider it.

_**Making a split-second decision is **_**not **_**the same as 'considering it.'**_

_Shut up._

"I didn't think you'd show," she said after a minute.

He shrugged absently, letting her take his hand in her own.

"You would have been disappointed if I hadn't."

* * *

Clinophobia – fear of sleep. Because even though there's a phobia for the fear of objects at the right side of your body (dextrophobia), and there are at least ten different names for the fear of being alone, there apparently isn't one for the fear of napping or, better yet, the fear of disappointment.

* * *

Jonathan is such an evil, smug, control-freak-bastard. And…that's why we love him? I guess? And the Scarecrow seems almost…reasonable in this. Maybe it's because he's able to vent all of his rage into the sex? Even though he's probably more of a voyeur than an actual participant.

**Notes**

…the blonde tart… - 'tart' has always seemed like more of a term of endearment, to me, even though calling a woman such is obviously meant to be an insult. This is probably because it makes me think of cute little pastries that taste semi-sweet and semi-sharp. Which…y'know…kinda describes Harley. :-3

She hadn't even made him breakfast – I still can't picture Jonathan eating breakfast (or lunch…or dinner, sometimes), but the idea of him whining about not getting it amuses me.

**Disclaimer:** You guys know by now that they're not mine, right? Thought so.


	2. Astraphilia

**Astraphilia**

**Note:** Super sorry for the unforgivably long absence! And for the pathetically short one-shot to make up for it!

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night—no, really. It was.

Rain hammered against the windows, the wind howled, thunder boomed, and lightening flashed and crackled in the sky. Every storm-related cliché that she could think of raced through her overwrought mind as she laid there, body taut and practically thrumming with excitement.

"You're shaking."

So was her voice: "Y-yeah…"

So was he, and she told him so. At once he was defensive.

"I'm not scared."

If he had sounded anymore insulted and childish, she might have melted at how cute he could be—but that would have ruined the mood. Instead she squeezed his hand.

"I know you're not, Jonny."

She heard him suck in a long, sharp break as he pressed himself closer, lips right beside her ear. Lightening flashed.

"Are you?"

Her eyes were wide, transfixed on the storm.

"Y-yes. Feel." And she splayed her fingers over his, placing his hand over her heart. Beating like a frenzied little bird inside a chest so tight it was threatening to crack. Behind her, his own heart sped up, hammering quick and hard against her naked back. His breathing quiet but erratic—parallel to her own, which had all but stopped in her fear, her lungs ready to burst from the strain. He sensed this easily.

"Breathe…"

She did.

She was so glad that Jonny had understood—this was easily something he could have scoffed at and written off as a childish fear. He was one of the few people who could still make her feel embarrassed.

But he didn't; he _got _it. He understood that it wasn't a _real _fear, just a little-girl-fear, a fun kind of scary excitement that grew inside of her until she tingled with it. Having no fears of his own, he couldn't share her feelings. But he could en_hance_ them.

A clap of thunder, a burst of lightening, and in the distance came the sound of screams. She jumped, the horrific cacophony making her squeak.

"O-oh…oh my G-God…oh my God…" She giggled softly. Madly. Bringing a hand to her mouth as she looked up at him, the jump having landed her on her back.

"Y-you were right. W-we _can _still hear the inmates from my office…" Another breathless laugh.

He loomed over her, hands on either side of her head, eyes glowing in the jagged shadows.

And he _smiled_.

* * *

Astraphilia – (often abnormal) sexual attraction toward thunder and lightening, although I've sometimes seen it defined as sexual attraction to _only _lightening and that **brontophilia** is both. But then I've also heard that _that's _just a sexual attraction to thunder. I figured that, if that _is _the case, I'd go will astraphilia as the title since Harls is mainly turned on by the lightening.

* * *

**Note:** Normally I like to hope that my writing is clear enough for everyone to understand what's going on, but I feel that this one might be a bit vague. So, just so you know: Yes, Jonny and Harls are in Arkham. At night. Naked. On Harley's futon. It's storming. And they couldn't be hornier.

That said, a new chapter of _Fear and Malice _is on it's merry way!

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.


End file.
